I was eighteen-years-old when I won my first Champions League title.

Lyon was undoubtedly the ruler of Europe at the time, and I was being made into the player I am today, training with the best players around. They put me on in the second half of extra time. It is a lot of pressure to know that you are only playing because of your penalty kicks.

Ada missed hers, and the pressure doubled.

There was silence in the stadium as I placed the ball down on the spot, and the next thing I heard was an eruption of joy from my teammates behind me. Shouts of pride. The ball had hit the top corner – top bins, as the English call it – and the keeper never stood a chance.

It felt like I was on top of the world.

The next time the gold medal hung around my neck was the following year, close to three-hundred-and-sixty-five days older; wiser. This time, there was no shy smile or unsure place in the team. I knew I was leaving at the end of the season, I knew I was getting out of the hellhole Lyon had become for me.

I played three minutes, once again put on for my penalties. Ada refused to take one unless it was absolutely necessary, traumatised from the year before, and I clung onto the one thing people remembered had gone well for me.

When I placed the ball on the spot, a repeat of 2016, I was thinking about how terrible my birthday would be if I missed this. How the manager would destroy my career, how Chelsea would tell me that they had changed their mind.

All the times I had practised those kicks could have been for nothing.

But I scored. Of course I scored. I haven't missed a penalty in five years; they are ingrained into me, part of my being, so instinctual that taking them is like speaking a sentence in my native language.

Talia is in awe of my stories from Lyon. Her excitement to be on a plane to Eindhoven is too much, and so I attempt to calm her with the darker, more fable-like tales, but all she gives me in return is a 'that's so cool that you are here now'. "Now for mine!" Lucy shouts with a grin, leaning over Mariona to insert herself in our conversation from the other side of the plane.

I roll my eyes, glad to have taken the window seat, and rest my head against the wall of the aircraft, looking out the window as we grow closer and closer to our destination. I've never really been to Eindhoven before, but it is part of the homeland, which is better than Barcelona. Here, things are simpler. Far less sunny, sure, but at least there is no language barrier and they eat food at sensible times.

"You are going to translate for us, right?" Keira asks me as she stops by my row on the coach. There is an empty seat, but it seems as though she is hesitant to take it.

"Yeah, of course. Everyone will speak English, though, Kei, so don't worry. It's not like Spain – you can put Google Translate away."

It may have something to do with Alexia's insistence to speak in Spanish as much as possible, but I find myself understanding quite a bit, and speaking more than María had expected of me. I'm good at languages, but she was still surprised. As for the English girls... Well, Keira may need more than two Spanish lessons a week.

I am about to ask her why she isn't sitting down when I spot a familiar blonde head poke out from behind her, eyes trained on the empty space, hand tapping Keira's shoulder in a way that means 'move' as nicely as possible. Keira does, because it is her captain telling her to, and smiles at me before giving in to Lucy's begging to join her a few rows back.

Alexia sighs when I turn to look at the outside scenery from the window, plucking my Airpod from my ear. "¿Qué?" I grumble, not allowing her the satisfaction of me turning around.

"So," she replies, her voice so childlike and cheeky that it feels like a five-year-old is sitting beside me.

"What is it?" 

"Your birthday is soon." And I'm planning on sleeping through it with the hope that no one else will think about how old I am getting. "Five days, Fleur, and I have no time to buy you a present."

I raise my eyebrows, not expecting her to even think about getting me one. "How about a Champions League trophy? I told Jill that the Netherlands is behind me, so I don't want to lose." It's not the only reason, but after she publicly declared who everyone is favouring, I have only wanted to win this thing more. Viv said that she is going to be neutral, and I have swayed the Ajax fans by being their home-grown talent. There are a lot of Ajax fans, so Jill can pipe down.

Alexia hums thoughtfully, though it is simply pretence. She rests her head on my shoulder, still going with her act of deep consideration. Then, finally, "I don't know. Our right-mid is not very good. She is arrogant and too dramatic, and she does not like dogs! Who doesn't like dogs?"

"I like dogs, Alexia," I remind her, aware that she refuses to accept the second half of that sentence. "It's your dog. Are you sure they didn't sell you the devil reincarnate?"

"Nala es perfecta."

"She hates me."

"I hate you too," Alexia says, but there is nothing behind it. Its meaning has changed; it isn't true anymore.

━━━━━━━

There is a certain nervousness bubbling away within the team. Some are jittery, some pale, some over-excited.

Lucy and I bond over memories of what it was like during the days leading up to the final with Lyon; the calm, confident, entitled attitude the team carried; how they show you that year's celebratory t-shirt design the day before. There is no sense of 'not to get ahead of ourselves' there.

It's different here.

Barcelona has been hurt before; have been the ones on the receiving end of such earned complacency. In fact, the only times they have lost the Champions League have been when they played Lyon.

But they have also experienced the elation of winning. The celebrations, the feeling of immense achievement, standing victoriously on top of Europe.

It's a feeling of anticipation; reminiscent of old times and incredibly determined to make the past the present. I quite like it. It's a good atmosphere, what with the singing and training and smiles. Serious team dinners followed up with chaotic games of hide-and-seek (Talia and Pina never get found thankfully). Nighttime talks with Alexia, where she asks me to take her mind off what is heading towards us at breakneck speed.

Then, when the day arrives, it is like Alexia does not know what defeat is.

"We are going to win," she tells me as we walk down to breakfast together, ahead of most of our teammates. "We are going to win, Fleur, and you are going to have your birthday present."

"If we don't, you owe me," I tease, nudging her shoulder with my own in the lift. She looks at me, baffled.

"We are going to win."

I believe her.

Except, as the day plods on at an excruciatingly slow pace, I get a feeling that something is going to go wrong. Whether it be for the team or for me, this day is not going to be as perfect as everyone is so optimistically hoping.

In the changing room, Jonatan goes through the line-up one last time; the hours Alexia and I have spent pouring over footage now paying off as we help to dissect how each and every Wolfsburg player lives and breathes. "Paños, Rolfö, León, Paredes, Bronze. Alexia on the left, Fleur on the right, and Keira in the middle. Salma, Mario, and Caro at the front. Nothing new."

Before we walk out, I make sure that Alexia isn't going to scare off Popp with her expression, reminding her to smile even if it is just a small one. I get a weird look from Jill, who has glanced over from the Wolfsburg line after seeing me approach my captain. I tell her that we will talk about it later, and she tells me that I won't be able to because I will be too busy crying.

I still have that feeling that something bad is going to happen.

Swallowing it down, I take my position on the pitch, nodding at a nervous Keira Walsh. This is the first time I have started in a match like this, but the stakes are not new for me. Winning a Champions League title is every player's dream.

The crowd sings and sings and sings. The atmosphere is electrifying.

Three minutes in, when Pajor scores, it still isn't satisfied.

My yellow card in the thirtieth minute and the second goal from Wolfsburg in the thirty-seventh is not enough either.

I gulp down my water at half-time, forcing myself to relax at the feel of Alexia's hand on my back, pressed there to guide me to the changing room but seemingly stuck to me with superglue. She seeks comfort just as I do. It is terrible to be down by two before half-time. Not many teams come back from this.

"But we are not many teams," Alexia declares, her speech just as inspiring as it is attractive. She switches to Catalan, her passion overflowing in tears that proudly roll down her cheeks. The girls who understand seem equally moved. Our hands go in: uno, dos, tres, Barça.

"What did you say?" I ask as we jog out of the tunnel, ready to fire up and set the second half ablaze. Kicking me a ball, watching with a smirk as I flick it upwards to return it to her, she only shrugs. "Yeah, you're right. I am too good to need a pep talk." I take her silence as agreement.

I believe her.

I tell myself to believe her.

I score in the forty-eight minute, closing the gap. I want to win this final. I'm good enough to win us this final. The first one to celebrate with me is Caro, who assisted the goal beautifully. She ruffles my hair, screaming in my ear, and I find myself searching for Alexia in the crowd of players around myself, wanting her to know that I meant what I said over a month ago.

We are going to win this final.

Our chances are only getting better as we equalise. A header from me, but a brace that means nothing to me in comparison to Mapi's ecstatic cheering. She missed her trophy last year. She wants it back. She promised it that she would return.

Salma comes off for Talia, who looks fierce and ready to go.

I intercept a weak pass from Lynn, pushing the ball forwards for Mariona to get on the end of. She offloads to Alexia, who is waiting to pounce, and then receives it again once the Wolfsburg backline wake up and begin to defend. What the green shirts haven't noticed is Talia sneaking into the mix, with a killer right-foot and a need to prove herself to a world that hears only whispers of her name.

I tackle Talia to the ground before the ball sinks into the back of the net, but I knew she would have scored as soon as she came on anyway. She laughs as I squeeze her tightly, pushing me off after a second to scream at the roaring crowd, perfectly content wearing a blaugrana shirt for the time being.

The scoreline sits at 3-2 to us. We are winning.

The next twenty minutes are played strategically, with every Barcelona player on the pitch focused on keeping possession; playing Barça football. Aitana is better at it than me, so I make room for her, joining Caro and Mario as they cool down on the bench. Alexia moves into the middle of the pitch, and Keira comes off to make way for Ingrid.

"Do you think...?" she asks me as she sits down, leaning right next to my ear so that I can hear her over the deafening crowd.

She is afraid to speak it out loud, but I am not, confident in the ability of those on the pitch. "Yes, we are going to win," I tell her, not bothering to cover my mouth with my hand. Let them lip-read. "There are seven minutes to go."

Popp gets a yellow card. Irene gets a yellow card. The intensity does not dwindle, raging on as though it is fueled by the growing volume of the crowd; the hopefulness laced into the Barcelona fans' singing.

I hold Keira's knee still, irritated by the way it anxiously bobs up and down.

Everyone is taking their warm-up kit off, ready to celebrate.

We wait at the edge of the technical area, Laia holding a trainer's watch to count down the last few seconds, running into eight minutes of stoppage time now.

And then the final whistle is blown.

We surge onto the pitch as though the floodgates have been opened, jumping around in a huddle that is teeming with emotion.

Paños picks me up, squeezing me tightly, the only word she is capable of getting out being 'VAMOS'.

I get put down, grabbing Talia from her hug with Salma and Vicky, pulling her into me to tell her how proud I am. How amazing she is.

Someone tugs at the back of my shirt, interrupting us. Talia doesn't seem to mind, chasing Jana around as she shouts gleefully.

I turn around to see Alexia, tears in her eyes, grin so wide her face must have stretched. She wraps her arms around me, face buried in my neck. "Feliç aniversari," she says, lips almost pressed to my ear.

"Two days," I remind her, laughing.

"No m'importa." Mapi looks over at us, and the sight only makes her smile grow. "Thank you for the goals."

"You're welcome." She giggles at my tone, and then pushes herself away from me as my national teammates approach me.

"Fins aviat," she calls, running off to join the rest of the team.

Jill, Lynn, and Dom look at me helplessly; lost. Their teary eyes hurt to see, and I sit with them as they dejectedly collapse onto the ground once more. "It had to be you," Jill says, falling backwards to lie down.

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," she replies, though it is not accusatory. More... accepting. I could have come to Wolfsburg.

"You're right." I shuffle over, resting my head on her stomach as she takes deep breaths in and out. "I'm sorry you lost. That you had to lose for us to win."

"That's how football works, Fleur."

"Go. Celebrate with your team."

Jill pushes me up, the other two supporting her statement by poking my hamstrings.

"Okay, okay."

It only takes Talia, escaping from her interview, to coax me away from them, situating me in the centre of our celebrations once more, Aitana now jumping onto my back.

For the third time in my life, I feel on top of the world. Except, in my head, there is a clock that is ticking down the minutes until disaster strikes.

notes:

I FELL ASLEEP WRITING THIS I'M SORRY

anyway im so tired now because that was at half three so honestly be grateful that i love u all this much xx

thanks for reading!!!!!!!!!!